The call for help
by dinofossil
Summary: This story contains the discipline of an adult so if this offends please move on. Spoilers for Season 2. Dean is heading off the rails, and searches out Bobby to get him back on track. Very angsty Sam & Dean.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Call for help  
**Author**: Dinofossil  
**Summary**: Dean looks to Bobby for help to stop him going off the rails.  
**Author's Notes/Warnings**: Warnings for season 2. Story is a little sadder than I would have liked. Not sure why it went that way, it just did. It also contains a punishment that might be considered a bit harsh in later chapters.

I appreciate that there are those who may be offended by this type of fiction, particularly if I have used your favorite or treasured fictional character. If you think this might be you, please do not proceed, and click the back button instead. I have on a number of occasions when accidentally stumbling on things that don't rock my world, and hey, it works!

If this fiction does appeal, then enjoy, and comments are always welcome.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of characters. They belong to Eric Kripke, and the CW, and anyone else I am unaware of. Not making any money from this either.

Dean Winchester lay stretched out on his bed in the empty motel room, his head propped up facing towards the flickering images of the dated television sat opposite. Although his eyes were settled on the screen, the scene playing in his head bore no relation to the show droning away in front of him, as he constantly replayed the argument he'd had with his brother earlier that day.

By the time he'd come to the end of his fourth repeat, he was beginning to annoy himself. '_Come on, stop this'_ he tried scolding, but he paid as little attention to himself as he had to Sam during their fight, and so the angry words continued on their irritating loop inside his head.

Desperately trying to distract himself, he scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, and stood up to prowl moodily around the claustrophobic room. Switching off the television, he suddenly became aware of the items lying on the floor, left scattered by his brother before he'd stormed out of the room like a mini tornado.

Feeling a need to remove the evidence of their dispute, he began the task of clearing up. A single sock and pair of trainers, looking as though they had scurried for cover during the worst of the argument, were retrieved from under the table and thrown hastily into a bag.

He knew the books sprawled on the floor were important to Sam, so he handled these with a little more respect, arranging them into an orderly pile, before carefully replacing them on the night-stand nearest his bed.

Stopping for a moment, he caught sight of Sam's sweatshirt messily crumpled on the floor at the base of a chair. Frowning, he remembered his brother having to grab the chair for support after he'd been punched. It was this violent act that had been the final punctuation mark at the end of their discussion, signalling the argument was over.

Picking the sweatshirt up, he gently squeezed the softly worn material in his fists. He knew he'd overstepped the mark this time and should be feeling some emotion, guilt at the very least, but now the initial anger had gone, he felt nothing but the familiar gnawing at the dad shaped hole inside him.

The argument had been about his handling, or more accurately, his inability to handle their dad's death. '_Weren't they always these days_?' He was sick and tired of Sam steering every damn conversation round to the subject in an effort to get him to open up. Even the choice of breakfast that morning had turned into a "Dean, do you remember when dad…?" moment, for _Christsakes_.

Absentmindedly, he sat down at the small table and looked accusingly at the lap-top, still left open from his brother's frantic search for pictures of their dad. That was how the whole pointless argument had started in the first place.

Indulging himself in the memory of happier times, he recalled Sam accusing their dad of being a believer in the myth that cameras somehow captured the soul, as they possessed so few photos of him. Trying to rectify this, Sam had taken to grabbing sneaky pictures of him with his camera phone, whenever he thought he could get away with it.

In consequence, most of the images held were badly composed or poorly lit, but there were a few diamonds nestled amongst the collection. Sam's favourite was one where he'd adopted his usual pretence of using the phone, but had been caught in the act of snapping a picture. Greatly amused by his youngest son's poorly concealed deception, his dad had rewarded him with a warm and tender smile that Sam had managed to capture.

During the long months that followed their dad's death, he'd guessed Sam had been unable to bring himself to look at the treasured images, but he'd always known that the day would eventually come, and he would be left to sort through the emotional wreckage to salvage the broken pieces of his brother.

On the day of the fight, Sam had taken advantage of some unexpected free time at the end of their hunt to re-charge his depleted batteries. Within seconds of luxuriously sprawling out on the soft bed, he had fallen into a deep sleep.

For the past few months, Sam had been suffering from terrible nightmares that disturbed his sleeping hours, and today was no exception. Within an hour of falling asleep, and despite being completely exhausted, the haunting images returned with an annoying frequency, invading his mind once more.

Only this nightmare had one difference to his previous dreams. While the scene was the all too familiar imaginings of his dad's demise, the man had morphed into a faceless person that Sam could barely recognise.

Prematurely woken by the shock of this image, Sam had sat bolt upright in a complete panic, his breaths coming out in short hard gasps, tears starting to fill his sleepy eyes. His distress had been obvious, as he took a moment to desperately rifle through his memory, trying unsuccessfully to find saved images of his dad.

Sending the pile of books next to him skimming across the floor, he'd leapt off his bed and moved to the table, giving his startled brother a running commentary of his troubled thoughts.

"Dean, I can't remember what dad looked like. Why can't I remember? What's wrong with me?"

The last thing Dean had wanted was another emotional confrontation. "Dude, you need to calm down, you've just had a bad dream that's all."

"No…, I'm not dreaming now, and I still can't remember."

Sitting opposite his brother at the table, Sam had powered up his lap-top, his face a mixture of concentration and upset, frantically tapping away at the keyboard.

Knowing exactly what his brother was searching for, and predicting it would end badly; Dean had tried to distract him. "Sammy…, _SAM!_"

He was too late. The drooping shoulders and deep sob signalled that Sam had already hit the jackpot, and found the pictures he'd been looking for. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Dean had dramatically rolled his eyes at him, "Okay, this is not awkward."

Their exchanges had quickly deteriorated into a full blown argument, following the same worn track as previous fights, as though being read from a well rehearsed script. Accusations flew from both sides and were forcibly denied, and tempers started to flare to new heights. Finally, through frustration and anger, Sam had accused his brother of not caring that their dad had died.

Stopping for the briefest of moments, Dean had almost looked as though he was going to let the comment pass, but instinct kicked in, and he'd drawn back his fist and thrown it violently into his brother's jaw. Unprepared for the blow, Sam had lost his balance, grabbing the chair for support in an effort to stop himself from tumbling to the floor.

With large betrayed eyes, Sam had stood rubbing his painful jaw, searching for something to say. He couldn't bring himself to blame his brother, because he understood where the raw anger had come from. But with Dean still angry, he'd decided that it would be best to remove himself for a while, giving them the space they both needed to calm down.

Grabbing his jacket, he'd wordlessly walked out of the room.

Now left alone with his thoughts, Dean wondered how he was going to repair the widening rift that was so destructively tearing them apart. While he still felt no guilt for his actions, his escalating violence troubled him, and he knew it needed dealing with, and quick.

He realised he was in no fit state to offer the comfort that his little brother desperately needed. But thinking back, he recalled the time they'd spent recovering at Bobby's after the car accident and losing their dad. While he had predictably closed himself off by working on the Impala, he was aware that Sam had leant heavily on the older man, being comforted by his presence and fatherly support.

Hoping this was the answer; Dean flipped his phone open and searched for the number. For once, it seemed that luck was on his side, when he heard the familiar gruff tones responding at the other end of the phone. Explaining some of the reasons for calling, he tentatively asked if it was okay for them to drop by for a few days, and was relieved to hear Bobby confirm that he would be pleased to see them.

By the time Sam returned to the motel, there was no time for the awkwardness that he'd been expecting. Outside their room, he found Dean busily putting the last of their bags into the trunk of the car, and was reassured to hear him absentmindedly humming away to a song floating through the open car windows.

Sensing a presence behind him, Dean glanced up, noticing immediately the dark red mark that had formed on his brother's jaw. Attempting to regain his trust, he smiled at him and made sure he softened his voice.

"_Sammy_! Back just in time, I thought we might take a run over to Bobby's for a few days. What do you think?"

"And we're going to Bobby's why?" Although Sam sounded cautious, he was secretly pleased by this sudden change to their plans. An unscheduled break would be just what they both needed to recover, and maybe re-build the broken bridges between them.

"Look, I know I've been acting like a hard ass lately, and the last thing I want is to push you away, so I'm going to get us some help. I can't give you what you need right now, and you definitely can't give me what I need, but I think I know a man who can.

Seemingly satisfied with this response, Sam nodded thoughtfully and climbed into the passenger seat, settling himself down for the long drive ahead.

They were both relieved when they eventually reached Bobby's. Dean's earlier attempts at being pleasant seemed to have been left by the roadside back at the motel, and the journey had been completed in the customary silence that Sam had come to expect.

Bobby was outside working on a car when they pulled up. Smearing his oily hands on an even dirtier rag, he flashed them a genuine smile and casually sauntered over to greet them.

Climbing out of the car, Sam stretched before embracing him warmly; wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell of engine oil. When they eventually separated, Bobby held him at arms length, taking in the withdrawn looking face and bruised jaw.

He looked over accusingly at Dean, who caught the look, and shifted uncomfortably under the older mans intense gaze. But any thoughts that Bobby had were quickly dispelled by the worrying sight of the empty deeply sunken eyes and grey pallor. '_What the hell were these boys doing to themselves_?' He wondered.

Moving towards him, Bobby made as much contact as he thought Dean would allow, and placed a cautious hand on his shoulder. As he led him into the house, he was shocked at how thin the shoulders had become in the few months since he had last seen him, and it strengthened his resolve to help them both.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Call for help  
**Author**: Dinofossil  
**Summary**: Dean looks to Bobby for help to stop him going off the rails.  
**Author's Notes/Warnings**: Warnings for season 2. Story is a little sadder than I would have liked. Not sure why it went that way, it just did. It also contains a punishment that might be considered a bit harsh in later chapters.

I appreciate that there are those who may be offended by this type of fiction, particularly if I have used your favorite or treasured fictional character. If you think this might be you, please do not proceed, and click the back button instead. I have on a number of occasions when accidentally stumbling on things that don't rock my world, and hey, it works!

If this fiction does appeal, then enjoy, and comments are always welcome.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of characters. They belong to Eric Kripke, and the CW, and anyone else I am unaware of. Not making any money from this either.

Within the first day there was an immediate change in Sam. Given a new outlet to vent his feelings, he'd spent his time talking freely to Bobby without fear of being ridiculed for being over emotional. Unburdened, he had enjoyed his first trouble free night of sleep, and his ingrained tiredness was slowly lifting.

Satisfied with the results he'd achieved with Sam, Bobby turned his attentions to Dean, but the older brother had unsurprisingly rejected any offers of help with his usual brash and cocky manner. Bobby decided not to push him, desperately hoping he would come round in his own time.

By the third evening of their stay, Bobby and Dean were busy clearing away the remains of a late evening meal. Sam was still obviously enjoying the novelty of sleeping again, and had made a yawning excuse, before disappearing to his bed for the night.

As Bobby finished drying up, he almost dropped the plate he was handling in surprise, when Dean asked if it was okay to sit with him once he was through. Bobby applied the breaks against his urge to immediately grab the boy, and nonchalantly carried on with putting the remaining plates away.

Once done, the two men retired to the cosy seating area beside the warm crackling fire, and sat in silent companionship. Clearly nervous, Dean repeatedly rubbed the palms of his hands along the tops of his thighs, taking long deep breaths as if trying to speak, but never quite seeming to make it.

With years of practice at sitting patiently while staking out hunts, the older man looked completely untroubled by the silence, allowing his body to relax and sink deeply into the old couch. Inside though, he was a mixed bag of nerves, as he tried desperately to will Dean the courage to speak.

It was a full half hour before Dean was able to break the silence. Leaning forward in his creaking chair, he rested his elbows on his knees and clutched his hands together in an attempt to still them.

"I need your help, Bobby, I've been acting way out of control lately, and I feel so angry all the damn time. I'll bet you already guessed I hit Sammy the other day, and I need to stop before it gets out of hand and I push him away for good."

"You always did shut your feelings away, even as a kid. It might help if you let them out once in a while, you know, talk a bit more about how you're feeling." Bobby offered.

"Sorry, but you know I'm no good at all that emotional crap, it's just not me." Dean tried to explain.

"At least try, because something's making you like this. I mean, you've never talked once about your dad, maybe all this anger is just a cover for your sadness?"

'_Sadness!' _Dean tried the emotion on for size, but found that it didn't fit. Truth was he felt nothing, not sadness, not hurt, or even any guilt at his behaviour towards Sam. He simply had a big hole where his feelings should be, and he was desperate to fill it with something, _anything_, so that he could start to feel normal again.

"Bobby, you have to trust me when I tell you that talking is not going to help. No matter what direction I approach to try and resolve this, I keep coming back to dad and how he would have dealt with my anger. So I know this is a strange thing to ask, actually, it's downright weird, but I need you to deal with me in the same way as dad would have."

Bobby looked at the expectant face staring back at him. "_Are you asking me to punish you_?" he asked incredulously, "because I'd rather we tried unlocking those feelings first."

"Oh, my feelings won't come out that easily…, believe me," Dean said bitterly. "They've been put in a room, lights have been turned off, curtains have been drawn, and a chair's been jammed underneath the door handle."

Not warming to Dean's suggestion, Bobby shook his head. "No, I'd still prefer it if we talked things through instead."

Signalling that he'd had enough of this conversation, Dean rose from the chair and made his way towards the stairs, his face full of thunder. "Yeah…, well I'm done with talking, so unless you've got any other brilliant suggestions I'm off to bed.

Unexpectedly alone, Bobby sat and listened to the creaks and groans of the house as it settled for the night. His talk with Dean hadn't gone like he'd planned, and not for the first time, he wished his old friend was around to offer advice.

At breakfast the next morning, there was a noticeable tension in the air, as the meal was consumed in silence. Sam exchanged a '_what the…_?' look with Bobby, trying to figure out the reason for his brother's surlier than usual demeanour, but Bobby just responded with a shrug of his shoulders.

Stealing another glance at Dean over his cup, Sam couldn't help but feel worried. While he felt brighter by the day, the grey tinge that masked his brother face grew more pronounced, and it seemed he had become even more withdrawn.

"So, Dean, what are your plans for today? Only I thought we could spend some time together. Maybe do a spot of fishing, you know, like we used to with dad?"

Dean's response was forced and clipped, "No…, thought I'd look out for our next hunt."

Sam sighed. "Have you looked in the mirror lately? Only you're starting to _look_ like our next hunt. You're pale as a ghost, and your character is a bit too Jeckle and Hyde. I think it's time to talk about this…, why don't you try and let us help?"

Feeling it important to back Sam up, Bobby joined in the debate. "Dean, your brother's right, you're pale and withdrawn all the time. We should spend time talking this through; take it as slow as you want nothing too heavy."

"For _Chrissakes_, will you both stop peeling back the dressings and picking at my stitches, I'm okay."

Slapping a hand on the table in frustration, Sam loudly disagreed. "No, Dean, you might have given up on yourself, but I haven't. Not by a long shot, so get used to it, because I'm going to keep going for as long as it takes."

Taking them all by surprise, Dean suddenly sprang out of his chair and grabbed hold of Sam, hauling him away from the table. The cup that he was holding flew into the air, the hot contents spilling out in a small wave that rained down, causing him yelp as they splattered against his skin.

Ignoring the cries of protest at his assault; Dean kept a tight grip on his brother's shirt, and propelled him backwards, sending him tripping awkwardly over his own feet, until he had him pinned firmly up against the wall.

Releasing his right hand, Dean wrapped it into a tight hard fist, and drew his arm right back, ready to slam it into his brother.

Looking horrified, Sam cringed and tried to flinch away from the anticipated blow, but only succeeded in knocking the back of his head with a loud crack, as it made painful contact with the wall behind him. "_Please, Dean, don't do this_," he cried out trying to reason with him.

For the briefest of moments Dean held his position, muscles tense ready to strike. But the longer he stared into Sam's scared eyes, the more he felt his rage being replaced by shame at his behaviour. Looking at his arm as though it belonged to someone else, he paled, and allowed it to drop uselessly to his side.

With a face full of embarrassment, he took a step back and glanced round at Bobby. "I tried to warn you last night that this was going to happen, but you knew better." Turning back to his brother, he whispered him an apology. "I'm so sorry, Sammy, I've tried my hardest to change, but I can't. I'll pack up my things and be gone by the afternoon."

Shrugging off his brother's efforts to keep hold of him, he stormed out of the house to cool down, slamming the door behind him.

In desperation, Sam pleaded with Bobby. "Do something, _please_; he won't listen to me." Tears started to fill his eyes. "I don't want to lose him as well as dad."

Deep in thought, Bobby paced around the room a few times, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Coming to a decision, he muttered loudly to himself, and hared off out of the door after Dean.

Anxiously standing at the window, Sam looked on as his brother leant against the hood of the Impala, moodily scuffing the dirt at his feet, arms folded defensively across his chest. When Bobby reached him, he turned and attempted to move away, but found his escape route expertly blocked by the older man.

Straining to hear through the open door, Sam caught tiny fragments of their discussion, as the two voices rose, and then fell away again.

Sucking in a nervous breath, he watched as Dean poked an angry finger into Bobby's chest, and then forcibly shoved the palm of his hand against his shoulder. Not rising to the bait, the older man simply brushed away the attacks, as though shooing away an irritating but persistent fly.

No matter how many buttons Dean tried to push, Sam was relieved to see that Bobby maintained his calming presence, and eventually, the sparks of the argument seemed to fizzle away to nothing.

With heads bent together, they both stood quietly talking; throwing Sam occasional glances at the window. At last an agreement seemed to be reached, as Bobby placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, and led him back towards the house.

Striding purposely into the room, feet clumping loudly on the wooden floor, Bobby barked an instruction towards Sam. "Take the car and make yourself scarce for a while, me and your brother need to talk."

Dragging his eyes away from Bobby, Sam fixed them on his brother instead, desperately willing for him to return the contact. But his eyes never shifted from staring at a spot a few inches in front of his feet.

Giving up with his brother, Sam angrily turned his attention back to Bobby. "No Bobby, I think I can guess what's about to go down here. I know you are trying to help, but you're mistaken if you think I'm going to walk away and let you do this."

Sensing the conversation getting out of hand, Dean forced himself to quieten his brother's rising objections. "Its okay, Sam, I've asked Bobby to help me straighten out a couple of things. Just do as you're told for once, and leave us for a while."

Hesitating for a few seconds, Sam carefully considered the order, before reluctantly obeying. Grabbing the car keys from the table, he shot a final worried glance over his shoulder, and made his way out to the car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Call for help  
**Author**: Dinofossil  
**Summary**: Dean looks to Bobby for help to stop him going off the rails.  
**Author's Notes/Warnings**: Warnings for season 2. Story is a little sadder than I would have liked. Not sure why it went that way, it just did. It also contains a punishment that might be considered a bit harsh in later chapters.

I appreciate that there are those who may be offended by this type of fiction, particularly if I have used your favorite or treasured fictional character. If you think this might be you, please do not proceed, and click the back button instead. I have on a number of occasions when accidentally stumbling on things that don't rock my world, and hey, it works!

If this fiction does appeal, then enjoy, and comments are always welcome.

**Disclaimer**: Don't own any of characters. They belong to Eric Kripke, and the CW, and anyone else I am unaware of. Not making any money from this either.

Now they were alone in the room, Bobby took a few deep breaths of air to bolster his confidence for the task ahead. "Now, are you sure about this, Dean?" he asked.

Unable to find the right words, Dean nodded his consent to the older man.

"Okay, let's get it over with then," Bobby said, scraping a chair out from underneath his dining table, and placing it in the centre of the room.

Looking across at Dean, he reminded himself of a long made promise to John to look after his boys, and as difficult as this was, deep down he knew that his friend had successfully used this same tactic in the past, helping the boy to work through his feelings of guilt.

He decided that if he was going to do this, he should do it right. It was time to make the swift change into stand-in father figure, something so desperately needed by the troubled young man before him.

Since Dean had somehow firmly rooted himself to the floor, Bobby moved to fetch him, guiding him over to the chair with a firm grip to his upper arm.

"Okay, son, bare your butt, and bend over the back of the chair."

For a few seconds Dean paused, overwhelmed by the sudden appearance of an old friend he hadn't felt in months, _fear_. He allowed himself the luxury of being re-acquainting with the long forgotten feeling. "Okay," he thought, "fear's an encouraging start."

A staged cough behind him brought him back to the present, and he forced his shaking fingers to unfasten his jeans, letting them fall to his knees. "Why did I think this was such a genius idea," he wondered wryly, as his boxers dropped to follow his jeans.

Bending over the back of the chair, he stretched out his arms and gripped the far edge of the seat, figuring it would help him to brace against the pain that he knew was coming. Behind him, he heard the sound of Bobby unbuckling his belt, and the menacing slither as it was pulled free. Groaning, he let his head drop between his arms and waited.

Doubling up the belt in his hand, Bobby bought it swinging down with a hard crack onto the middle of Dean's backside. With barely a pause, he laid down a number of swipes in quick succession, aiming so that each strike reddened a new area.

Bobby was not in the least bit surprised by Dean's reaction to his punishment. The only signs of discomfort that the boy was prepared to show were a tightening of his grip on the chair, and the slightest of twitches each time the strap hit target. Stopping for a moment, he sighed, worried that Dean had retreated into his strong, silent, and stubborn as a cantankerous mule, mode.

Remembering how these punishments used to work when Dean was much younger; Bobby tried the questioning approach to get him to open up. "So, do you want to tell me why you're being punished young man?" he barked.

"I told you already, for acting out of control, for being a hard ass and fighting with Sam all the time."

"That's a load of crap, Dean. You're forgetting how long I've known you, practically dragged you up myself at times, and I've always been able to tell when you're not being completely honest. Unless I'm very much mistaken, there's more to this."

"No, Bobby." Dean said shaking his head.

Resuming the punishment, Bobby swung his belt with a little more force, targeting the tender area at the top of the thighs. Dean winced at the sound of the leather against his bare skin.

"_Ow_ You're wrong. _Oww! That hurts!_ Okay…, y-yes, _Sonofabitch!_ YES." Dean yelped.

"Care to expand?"

"No, please don't make me."

"Looks like we're in this for the long haul then," said Bobby, setting fire to the red and tender backside once again.

Suddenly, Bobby noticed Dean's shoulders begin to shake, and relief washed over him. "_At last," _he thought sensing a breakthrough.

Easing off a little, Bobby gently encouraged him to speak. "Come on, son, let it all out."

Bobby had finally gained entry into the locked room, and after months of captivity, the newly freed emotions grappled with each other to be first through the door, causing Dean to cry for the first time in months.

"I'm turning into something I despise, _Oww! Bobby please…_, Sam's hurting, and I won't even let him talk about dad, _Oh crap that hurts_, b-because I couldn't care less anymore, not for him, not for dad. I feel nothing, nothing except anger. _S-stop dammit…_, what sort of monster am I?"

This was the last thing Bobby was expecting to hear, and he was shocked and saddened by the admission. Stopping, he placed a comforting hand on Dean's shoulder, giving it a gentle rub. "That's it son, it's all over, let's get you up," he said softly.

Sliding his arm under an armpit, he extended it round to support the shaking chest, helping Dean to stand.

Giving him some privacy to cover up, Bobby moved to the couch at the far end of the room waiting for him to finish. Once ready, he patted the seat next to him, "Over here, son."

Exhausted by emotion, Dean looked as though he was trudging through thick mud as he wearily made his way to join Bobby, his red and blotchy face hidden from view by his bowed head and sagging shoulders. Gingerly sitting next to the older man, he deliberately misjudged his aim, so that there was physical contact between the two of them, as they sat side-by-side.

Smiling at this move, Bobby decided it was safe to push Dean's boundaries a little further, and draped a fatherly arm around his shoulders, fully expecting it to be violently shrugged away. Instead the shoulders remained still, and his arm was allowed to rest there, radiating comfort and warmth like a favourite old scarf.

"Now, Dean, either you're a monster like you say you are, or maybe…, just maybe, there's the possibility that you're simply a kid who's still grieving for his dad. There's no right or wrong way to deal with it, you've just being doing what you needed to get yourself through it. The important thing now, is to start using some of those rekindled emotions to address the more difficult feelings you've been ignoring, yours and Sam's."

The shoulders beneath his arm started to shake as the tears began to flow freely again. "But, Bobby, I've said and done terrible things to Sam, when all the time he was only ever putting my needs before his own, I've made things worse for him, and I'm not sure he'll even forgive me."

"Listen, Dean, when my own dad died, my brother and I had plenty of fights like you and Sam, and I seem to recall in the middle of one, he was so torn up with grief, that he told me he'd wished I'd died instead of dad."

"_He did_? And you forgave him?" said Dean with renewed hope.

Bobby chanced a smile, "Nope, never spoke to him again."

Rewarded with a watery smile, he pulled Dean into the tight hug he'd been waiting to give. "Don't ever underestimate the help you've given Sam, just the two of you staying together will have helped him. He's a head-strong boy, if he was really that upset or scared, he'd have been off like a shot long ago. So you're both going to be okay."

Separating, Bobby carefully studied the young man's face. "How you feeling now?"

"Well my anger has been replaced by feelings of pain, predominately in the ass. Oh yeah…, not to mention the feelings of guilt, sadness, and I believe relief is somewhere in there too. So apart from feeling like some soppy chick with a sore behind, I guess I don't feel quite as crappy as I did."

For a long time they remained seated, Bobby gently coaxing Dean to talk about his dad, Dean clumsily stumbling over the unfamiliar words and feelings.

Eventually they were interrupted by noises from outside, as Sam discretely warned them of his return, slamming the car door loudly and clumping his feet on the porch.

"Sam mustn't see me like this," said Dean starting to rise off the couch in panic.

Bobby put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Dean, crying isn't a sign that you're turning into some soppy chick, as you put it, it's perfectly normal. It won't kill you if he sees you a little emotional for once."

A tentative knock at the door was answered by an all clear hollered by Bobby.

Wondering what he would find, Sam cautiously entered the room, his eyes immediately searching out his brother.

He spied him on the couch, and was surprised that Dean looked all of twelve years old, wiping a snotty nose with the heel of one hand, while removing traces of tears from his red and swollen eyes with the other.

Not wanting to embarrass his brother, Sam was unsure how he should react, but decided it would be more awkward to pretend nothing was going on, and besides, a face like that couldn't go without some sort of comment. "Have you two been watching Beaches without me?"

With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Dean stood and walked over to join him.

Sam stood eyeing his nose with respect. "Dude, that's a seriously impressive runny nose you got there, you're like a walking monsoon."

"Yeah, well best you start hoping that I don't sneeze, otherwise you'll be in big trouble," Said Dean sniffing loudly.

For a moment they stood apprehensively staring at each other, before Sam, unable to contain himself any longer, crashed heavily into his brother giving him a tight hug.

Both pairs of eyes became watery this time, as Dean mumbled a shaky apology, and Sam reassured him that everything was okay.

"Want to go outside and talk for a while, Sam? Only I think we've both got a lot of catching up to do." Dean finally asked.

Nodding, Sam headed for the door, but before stepping outside, he turned and mouthed a quick thanks to Bobby.

_**End**_


End file.
